


Of history, homes, and the penultimate miracle

by mywingsareonwheels



Series: What In Me Is Dark, Illumine [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12th century history, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dick Turpin the car, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gratuitous Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Spouses, Kink, Mental Illness, Moving House, Nightmares, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Softness, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tadfield, The Bentley - Freeform, and some actual plot, arguably - Freeform, crowley and aziraphale are both massive switches, fear of character death (but no actual character death), holiday time!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-08-12 00:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20162860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywingsareonwheels/pseuds/mywingsareonwheels
Summary: The early morning light rippled on the Serpentine sending flashes of brilliance into the air like song. The water was warm. It should not have been, but Aziraphale welcomed it, easing into it like an embrace.He flung his arms wide, laid on his back, and floated. Every care seemed to drift off into the lake, or up into the clouds (altocumulus, fluffy and bright like his own hair; a storm coming, not yet), that rolled lazily above him.He did not know why he turned, why he began swimming again, this time towards the shore.It's time for a holiday, time for a house move, and long past time for our heroes to decide what to do with the rest of eternity.It's just a shame that PTSD is going to make everything that little bit harder...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure if this series was going to get a third story or not, but this has been repeatedly bumping me on the head so I suppose I'm not getting any choice in the matter. ;-)
> 
> I'm being brave. With my other work on here I've always wanted to get things finished before posting them, lest I lose momentum and never actually do so. But, well. Here I go anyway. :-) This is a short first chapter; others are likely to be much longer. I know where this is going, and somewhat about how we're getting there, but... we'll see.
> 
> There may be more tags to come; I'll add them if this becomes relevant...
> 
> Content warnings: peril, mental health issues, nightmares, PTSD. There will be some kink and sex at some point, hence the Explicit rating, though that may not be for a while! Possibly some other warnings will also emerge; I'll add more of those to future chapters as becomes relevant too.

The early morning light rippled on the Serpentine sending flashes of brilliance into the air like song. The water was warm. It should not have been, but Aziraphale welcomed it, easing into it like an embrace.

There were a few other swimmers here today. An elderly couple, who laughed a lot, chased each other through the deeps, undulating like a two-woman school of fish. Two friends, one in a forget-me-not-blue burkini, the other in a conventional one-piece of almost the same hue, swimming together, giggling, chatting, occasionally waving at their partners (husbands?) and children, all having a picnic breakfast on the bank. Five serious middle-aged men wearing trunks as though they were business suits, one of whom had left his wheelchair parked neatly beside the walkway. 

In the quiet of his mind, Aziraphale said a blessing for each of them, and began to swim.

The seconds, the minutes stretched by. He lost track, of the time, of the distance. The sun was climbing to noon. He trod water for a moment, gazed at skyscrapers, gazed at trees, and saw that he was alone.

He flung his arms wide, laid on his back, and floated. Every care seemed to drift off into the lake, or up into the clouds (altocumulus, fluffy and bright like his own hair; a storm coming, not yet), that rolled lazily above him.

He did not know why he turned, why he began swimming again, this time towards the shore.

The figure appeared on the walkway, suddenly but not abruptly. He was not there, and then he was and had been for at least ten minutes. He was robed, mitred.

The distance closed between them, and Aziraphale recognised the puckish face, the heft of the shoulders.

“Tom!” he cried, joyfully.

“Ezra!” replied the other, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “So good to see you! Give me a moment, will you? There’s something I need to do.”

And he crouched on the walkway, spread his hands over the water, began to mutter, silently. 

Aziraphale swam closer, smiling over at his friend. He paused, trod water, reached one hand to his face. Tears were running down, merging with the wetness of the lake. _Curious._

The breeze stilled. Tom’s words were almost audible, the blessing, the ritual given an edge of stray consonants. Aziraphale shivered. The water was cooler now. Too cold.

He looked down. There were no more ripples. Instead, his reflection stared back. Yellow eyes wide and frightened in a tight, slender face. The long hands, clawing in panic. The mouth, screaming.

“Finished!” called Tom, cheerfully. 

“No...” sobbed Aziraphale. But no sound emerged. He tried to scream, tried to swim, but his breath was a mere choking whisper, and his limbs were as weak as driftwood. And the light of holiness spread out from the walkway towards him, ready to dissolve him into nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

“There, all done!” said Newton Pulsifer, as he closed the shop door. “That was the last crate, so they’ll be heading down to, erm, Tadfield in the next few minutes. It’s just us to go.”

Crowley finished settling the final dustsheet on the grey sofa with embossed leaf-patterns. It had tassels. Aziraphale had never liked them. “Nice one. Thanks Newt.”

Newt began to shift his weight about nervously, and Crowley looked up at him. “Something wrong?”

“No!” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“No, really, nothing wrong. I just… I realise I’ve still not said thank you.”

“For…?”

“Suggesting I set up the garage. Getting me a place on that course. Trusting me with… with your Bentley.” Newt swallowed, then smiled shyly. “I’ve never had a job I could actually do well and enjoy before.”

_Lucky you; I still haven’t,_ thought Crowley. “Well, I can’t have her being worked on by some random incompetent, and I know you won’t insist on adding any unnecessary gadgetry[1]. Plus, you’ve kept that piece of excrement you call a car on the road for years, and anyone who can do that has a gift, I’d say.”

Newt looked about to protest, or possibly about to cry, but then he caught Crowley’s eye, and laughed. “All right, I know Dick Turpin’s not the best thing on three wheels. I do… I do love him a lot though.”

“Quite right,” said Crowley. “The cars that matter deserve loyalty. That’s the other reason I trust you.”

There was a glow of potential friendship in the air. _Can’t have that._ Crowley took his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. 

“I think it’s just the two of you and your holiday luggage to go,” said Newt. “I’ll take the cases out, and I’ll be ready when you are.”

“Ta. I’ll go and see if Aziraphale’s finally finished getting ready.”

As he sauntered up the stairs to the flat, Crowley suddenly heard a voice call out, “That’s if you still want a lift in my _piece of excrement_ of a car.”

Crowley tripped on a step, and pointedly ignored the quiet snicker behind him.

* * *

“Aziraphale, if you’re still choosing between bow ties, let me let you into a little secret: you only have three that aren’t in a removal van, and _all_ of them are tartan.”

No answer, and Aziraphale wasn’t in the bedroom. Well, he’d want to wallow a little on his own before leaving, bound to, and the flat seemed to have been pupping extra rooms over the last few days, so obviously he was off in some random corner somewhere, doing whatever he needed to do. The place looked unfamiliar and no longer homelike, and not just because it was bigger and smarter and had fresh blue paint everywhere and doors in all the wrong places. There were no books. Still a few bookshelves – “we can’t _not_ leave them some bookshelves”, Aziraphale had insisted – but no books. Crowley sniffed, unnerved yet again by the shocking absence of vanillins and dust and bookbinding glue and sugar and all the other comfortable smells of home. He couldn’t wait to leave.

“The last van-load’s left, so it’s just you, me, Newton, and Dick bloody Turpin to go.”

Aziraphale wasn’t in the hallway. Nor in any of the five – _no, six!_ – new bedrooms, or the little box-room they’d already had[2]. 

“By the way, did you notice Newt’s become a lot more confident since he started repairing cars? If we’re not careful I’m going to start seriously liking the boy, and then where will we be?”

Aziraphale wasn’t in the cosy sitting room with the big kitchen that they almost never used[3]. Nor in the big guest bathroom with the fancy corner-bath, though it looked as though Aziraphale had given the taps a final sparkle. 

“Of course, it’s my own fault for getting him to set up as a vintage car mechanic, but, really.” A long pause. “Aziraphale, do I need to remind you of my views on non-consensual hide-and-seek? Where have you got to?” 

Now Crowley was starting to worry. He wound his way back to the main bedroom. “Aziraphale, have you manifested an attic or something to hide in?”

He sat on the bed, and tried to breathe his way through a sudden rip-tide of anxiety. _In for three, out for six, in for four, out for..._

The ensuite. Of course, he was a fool. Aziraphale would be in the ensuite, on the loo or doing his teeth, or… And ignoring Crowley calling him because… well, he must be wearing headphones. Which he never wore. So...

There was a tiny shimmer of sound.

“Angel are you still in the bath? You’ve been hours!”

Another splash. And something else.

Crowley was on his feet and through the door to the ensuite in one pounding heartbeat, barely noticing that he had miracled open the lock on the way. Aziraphale sat hugging his knees at one end of the bath. He was shivering. He was staring blank-eyed at the water in front of him. He did not look up.

“Angel.” Crowley crouched beside him, putting one hand on a shaking, clammy shoulder. Aziraphale flinched. Crowley stifled his dismay, released him hurriedly, and sat back, ignoring the pools of rosemary-scented dampness soaking into his jeans. “Hey, hey. Aziraphale. Fuck, um. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but we need to get you out of there. I’m going to run the water away now, okay?”

He reached down to pull the plug-chain at the other end of the bath, and Aziraphale’s sobs turned suddenly into a choking, stricken scream. Then he stopped abruptly, as Crowley lifted the plug, wrapped the chain neatly around the cold tap, and tentatively held out his hand. For a moment there was no sound except the absurd gurgling of water running down the plug hole, and a tiny drip from Crowley’s hand into emptying bath.

“You’re...” Aziraphale put his head in his hands. “Oh Heavens. You’re fine. Of course you’re fine. I’m being ridiculous.”

“The only ridiculous thing would be to stay here and get hypothermia. Can you take my hand? Can I… May I touch you?”

Aziraphale seized Crowley’s hand in both of his own. Then kissed it. Then he pressed his forehead on Crowley’s knuckles, weeping quietly. “I’m sorry. Oh my love, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, please,” said Crowley. His throat was raw. “Please, don’t.” He gently pulled his hands free from Aziraphale’s grasp, shook out his shoulders, daring his whiplash to flare up now. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said. “Let me get you somewhere warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] And not just because Newt _couldn’t_ add anything with a computer in it to the Bentley, though that certainly helped.
> 
> [2] Aziraphale had kept books in it. I know, astonishing.
> 
> [3] They preferred the small ground floor kitchenette with dining room they had created together for their Yule party. And when they sat, and talked, and snuggled, it was in bed, or in the shop itself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were on the M40 where it wound between the soft chalk hills of the Chilterns when Aziraphale finally found his voice.
> 
> “So, that was a nightmare. I’ve never had one before.”
> 
> Newt caught Crowley’s eye in the rear view mirror. Crowley nodded.
> 
> “It comes of not being in practice at sleeping, I suppose,” continued Aziraphale. “Only myself to blame, really. But it was rather unpleasant.”

Aziraphale said nothing as Crowley laid him on the bed, and wrapped him in an old tartan blanket he’d conjured up from somewhere. Nothing when Crowley ran his hands gently over Aziraphale’s shoulders and back, and then down his legs; his touch chaste, miracle-warm, easing. Nothing when Crowley stroked his damp curls and drew him against his bony shoulder, letting the horror slowly seep away. Nothing when Newt came in, white-faced, bearing a hot water bottle, a kindly stammer, and, bless him[1], a mug of cocoa from a nearby Costa. With marshmallows.

Crowley did not press. He could be, as Aziraphale knew better than anyone[2], extraordinarily patient.

They were on the M40 where it wound between the soft chalk hills of the Chilterns when Aziraphale finally found his voice.

“So, that was a nightmare. I’ve never had one before.”

Newt caught Crowley’s eye in the rear view mirror. Crowley nodded.

“It comes of not being in practice at sleeping, I suppose,” continued Aziraphale. “Only myself to blame, really. But it was rather unpleasant.”

“At some point,” rasped Crowley, “we are going to talk about the fact that you chose to take a fucking nap in the _bath_ while I was downstairs and couldn’t have heard you drowning.”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, pale and plump and neatly folded on his lap. Then at Crowley’s, wiry and freckled and shaking. “At some point,” he said. “Yes.”

Crowley seemed to repress a sob. Aziraphale found an immense lethargy impeding every movement, but he stretched out his right hand, found the fingers of Crowley’s left. Entwined them. 

“Well, then,” said Crowley. “What happened in your nightmare?”

* * *

Dick Turpin had an almost obscenely efficient engine, Newt’s gift from Adam in the last moments before the anti-Christ unwound himself into impossibly human boy. Newt nevertheless stopped for petrol at Aylesbury services, mostly, Crowley suspected, to give him and Aziraphale some moments alone. 

“Thomas Becket, huh? I’d forgotten you knew him.”

“Oh, yes. Tom was quite a good friend for a while. You’d have liked each other, I think, Crowley. I started out merely intending to give him a blessing and a nudge towards a more… spiritual interpretation of his vocation, and the next thing I knew we’d been drinking Bordeaux for six hours on the bank of the Thames and giggling at boats. He was still Lord Chancellor then, of course, and not very abstemious. Weren’t you at Henry’s court for a while?”

“If you call it a court. It was more like a…” Crowley caught Aziraphale’s eye, “… a _bebop_ tour. We weren’t courtiers, we were roadies. Setting things up, taking things down. Apologising to every lord we stayed with, after we trashed their castles and hunted everything on their land and then pissed off again.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, that sounds fun, yes? Lots of chaos? Sounds suitably... demonic.”

Crowley hissed theatrically, "Angel, that man lived in the saddle. So. Many. Fucking. Horses. Everywhere. And I had to eat like a human, so it was night after night of badly roasted whatever-Henry-bagged-that-day for months on end." Aziraphale winced sympathetically. "Got to give him credit, though. Dodgy husband, terrible house guest, worse father. But he was actually a pretty decent king, as kings go. Trial by jury and all that. Downstairs hated it. It’s why they pushed me so hard on the split between him and Becket.”

“Yes. Poor Tom.”

“I...” It really wasn’t the time, but this was starting to prey on Crowley’s mind. “Aziraphale, I think that might have been partly my fault. The turbulent priest bit, I mean. I did keep telling him that Becket had changed, that he wasn’t treating him right, wasn’t respecting him, that everything had gone wrong since he became archbishop. I was under pressure from my bosses so I… But I didn’t mean that he… that Henry should...” He broke off. “He was your friend.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “I don’t imagine Henry needed any help from you. And you weren't wrong in what you told him; Tom did change when he became archbishop, and he and Henry wanted diametrically opposite things, and they both had simply diabolical tempers. I’m not sure that either of us made much of a difference to either of them. Hangovers aside.”

Crowley snorted. He looked at the petrol station shop. Newt seemed to be taking forever choosing a magazine of some kind. Tactful sod. “I suppose you’re right." He gazed out of the window for a while. The view was not inspiring. "And in your dream, Becket… turned the Serpentine holy?”

“Yes.”

“The whole Serpentine.”

“Well, just the lido, really. Or possibly just the bit I was swimming in.”

“And you looked down, and in your reflection you… were me.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s not like I’ve never had your reflection before, my dear. It is rather a lovely one.”

“Still.” Crowley hated seat belts. Useful things, no doubt, but hardly necessary in the forecourt of a petrol station. He suddenly undid his own, then Aziraphale’s, and gathered him in his arms, ruffling the fluffy white-gold curls of his hair. “It sounds like it was terrifying,” he breathed.

Aziraphale leaned into him. His voice was calm, but now they were wrapped close Crowley could feel him trembling. “At least I… I woke up before the holy water reached me. But I still couldn’t move. Or speak, or call. I felt so _tired_. And I knew – I _knew_ – that the bathwater was just normal water. But when you came in and tried to touch me, all damp and dropletty, and when you reached down to pull out the plug...” He bit his lip. “This is it, isn’t it, Crowley? I’ve… broken down.”

“I… Yes, angel. I think you may have.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, with something of his usual, ridiculous practicality. “Well. We knew this was coming. And the timing could have been worse. We wanted to coordinate our breakdowns sensibly, and you are less ill than you were, and we’re about to go on holiday. So perhaps this…. isn’t so bad?” He trailed off, pulling back and looking up at Crowley, his eyes huge.

Crowley stroked his cheek. “Not so bad at all, angel. But you’re going to have to let me look after you for a bit. Just like you’ve been looking after me. You're going to have to stop trying to fix everything yourself.”

Aziraphale leaned into Crowley’s hand and kissed his palm, and his eyes were shining with tears but his face was suddenly radiant, with one of those dazzling smiles that for thousands of years had shone a fierce light into every one of Crowley’s dark places, illuminating him in a way that was glorious and yet almost unbearable. “Yes,” said Aziraphale, simply. “I will just have to do that.”

_Is it possible for a demon to discorporate from happiness?_ Crowley wondered, absurdly. _Because if we’re ever both mentally well for two weeks together, I think there’s a serious risk that I might._

If Newt was surprised to find the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes in the back of his car when he returned from paying for the petrol (plus a history magazine[3], three doughnuts, and a box of mints), he gave no sign of it[4]. He quietly opened the door, sat down, put his seat belt on, looked pointedly in the rear-view mirror at each of them until they did the same, and began to drive on. 

They were near the turn-off to Tadfield when Crowley suddenly said, “The Serpentine? Aziraphale, I love you but your subconscious is about as subtle as your taste in clothes.” Even Newt got that one, and if the laughter among the three of them was a little fragile, a little forced, it was still warm and close, and real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] And Aziraphale was going to. A lot. He hadn’t worked out what form the blessing should take yet, but blessed Newt was most certainly going to be.
> 
> [2] Except, perhaps, Her. And what She knew or thought of Crowley was… a question Aziraphale was going to keep deferring for a while.
> 
> [3] Which would turn out to contain a rather fractious debate in the letters page between two historians over the question of the precise relationship between James I/VI and the Duke of Buckingham. Aziraphale and Crowley would catch each other’s eyes, laugh uproariously for about ten minutes, and then, to Newt’s affectionate irritation, _never explain the joke_. 
> 
> [4] He was not surprised. At all. He had met them, after all. He was touched, however.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley had sold his flat, though in truth he had not lived there for months. It had become a place of ghosts and silence and loneliness. He had killed Ligur there – in self-defence, but he still hated that he had done it, and there was a patch of carpet he still found himself trying not to tread on. He had tormented his plants there – a coping mechanism, he knew that now, but one that he was still terrified of repeating. The furniture and artwork he valued he had moved into storage. The rest he had privately auctioned, donating the money, to Aziraphale’s delight, to a few carefully-selected charities.
> 
> “Well, this one helps victims of floods and other disasters,” he had said, “and this one plants trees. And this one supports trans kids and teenagers, and… Aziraphale, please stop sniffling, this is embarrassing enough as it is.”
> 
> He wasn’t embarrassed, in fact. He just still hadn’t quite got over the feeling that he ought to be.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Sorry about the brief hiatus folks! On the plus side I have chapter 5 very close to being ready too. :-) Have a chapter mostly comprised of exposition and softness. ;-)

So, what do you do when you know that Heaven and Hell want you dead?

Tricking them into believing you’re both invulnerable is a good start, of course. An excellent start. Especially if you can confuse them as well as frighten them, convince them you’re so far out of their range of experience that they must, surely, be somebody else’s problem. Each other’s, possibly. Definitely not theirs.

But how long will it last, when they know where you live, when they know where you go; when they can tell, at least if they are bending their minds towards you, when you last performed a miracle, and where you were when you did so?

Crowley had sold his flat, though in truth he had not lived there for months. It had become a place of ghosts and silence and loneliness. He had killed Ligur there – in self-defence, but he still hated that he had done it, and there was a patch of carpet he still found himself trying not to tread on. He had tormented his plants there – a coping mechanism, he knew that now, but one that he was still terrified of repeating. The furniture and artwork he valued he had moved into storage. The rest he had privately auctioned, donating the money, to Aziraphale’s delight, to a few carefully-selected charities.

“Well, this one helps victims of floods and other disasters,” he had said, “and this one plants trees. And this one supports trans kids and teenagers, and… Aziraphale, please stop sniffling, this is embarrassing enough as it is.”

He wasn’t embarrassed, in fact. He just still hadn’t quite got over the feeling that he ought to be.

Dealing with Aziraphale’s place was harder. He could not bear to sell the shop (Crowley had not even thought to suggest that he should do so), and the flat above it too had become precious. Their first home together as a couple. They could not part with it entirely.

Letting the building seemed the best policy; letting it at a ridiculously low cost for the area to a close-knit group of LGBT artists, some disabled, who would use it as a studio and workshop space, and a home for a few of them, was best of all. Aziraphale was paying for them to install a hearing aid loop, a wheelchair ramp, and a stairlift. Apparently the group were still debating whether to call their new base of operations “Angel House” or “Snake Space”. Crowley and Aziraphale had told them _nothing_ that should have made either possibility come up, but each was still hoping it would be named, however accidentally, after him.

The defenses they had put in place to spring into action as soon as they left the shop for the last time should discourage the angriest of celestial and occult beings from troubling the artists.

So far, so good. Now, where to move to.

There was no way even for two such beings as themselves to move out of London without telling at least some people where they were going. The artists were happy enough with e-mail addresses (and without being told anything more, they all understood how an obviously queer middle-aged couple might not want everybody to know where they lived), but if nothing else, Crowley and Aziraphale needed to be able to say, “oh, we’re heading to a little place called...” when cancelling a newspaper or getting rid of a customer or saying farewell to the staff at each of Aziraphale’s favourite restaurants.

They could move, they knew, anywhere in the world. But for the first time in their long lives they had a group of shared human friends, who knew who they were, and loved them. So Britain it had to be, and preferably southern England, where they would not be too far from the members of what Pepper insisted on calling Team Airstrip. And where they could nip back to London whenever they wanted.

Adam, inevitably, suggested Tadfield. His chosen humanity had not removed the protection around it that was his love for his home made manifest. Angels scorned it; Demons avoided it. Both sides feared it, and him, more than either would admit. And they were _embarrassed_ by it, which was always a useful quality if you wanted a place free from their interference. It could certainly provide some safety.

And it was a pretty village – gorgeous, in fact – an easy distance from London, with glorious woodland all around, and perfect weather. But something about moving there didn’t feel quite right.

“We need our own space,” said Crowley. “The Them would be in and out all the time, and they’re super kids, but...”

“It’s such a long time since I last lived near the sea,” said Aziraphale. “It might do us good to go for strolls along the coast, don’t you think?”

“Brighton’s got an amazing queer scene.”

“Fresh seafood would be rather marvellous.”

“Don’t chalk downloads have wildflowers? And grass snakes? I love grass snakes.”

“Oast houses! Don’t you think we’d do well in a converted oast house?”

And so on. Eventually their friends lost patience, and it was Pepper who voiced what was by this time apparent to everybody. “And you don’t want to live in Tadfield because of what happened there. God, you two, you make such a fuss.”

“Find a house you like on the South Downs, somewhere quiet, not too far from Brighton,” ordered Adam. “Buy it, and change its name to Tadfield. Tell everyone you’re moving to Tadfield. Then change the name again once you’ve moved in. Then they’ll never find you.”

As ruses went, it lacked imagination or subtlety or, frankly, a great deal of deep thought. But angels and demons also for the most part lacked imagination, subtlety, or any deep thought at all. It seemed worth a try.

All of which is to explain why most of their belongings were currently heading south on the A23 towards the village of Applecombe, to a house (currently called Tadfield) which Aziraphale had chosen, bought, and decorated, with almost no input from Crowley[1].

The reasons they themselves were heading west to the actual village of Tadfield in Newt’s car were threefold:

1\. The house was not entirely ready. Anathema, who had been helping Aziraphale with setting things up and was at rather a loose end now she was no longer a professional descendant, had enjoyed herself so much she said she was thinking of going into interior design. She had also insisted on being in charge of the removal company at the Applecombe end, and on having access to Tadfield-the-House without anyone else present. Something more to do, she said. And it wasn’t as though anybody was going to argue with her. 

2\. Crowley and Aziraphale were therefore currently between homes, and Crowley had abruptly decided a week ago that this meant they should have a holiday, and had immediately made some bookings without telling anybody (including Aziraphale) anything of where they were going. 

3\. The Bentley was currently in for a service in Newt’s new garage in Tadfield. Because there was no point moving all the way to East Sussex to be invisible to the powers that hated them, only to give away their location the first time one of them performed a miracle. Crowley had no idea how to look after a car in a way that did not involve demonic powers. The Bentley was going to need regular, human attention[2], and just before a holiday that would involve a fair amount of driving seemed an excellent time to start.

And so, here they were. Dick Turpin drawing up outside Jasmine Cottage. Crowley helping Aziraphale from the car while Newt carried their cases up to the guest room. A pale, smudge-eyed angel now tucked up below a thick duvet and as many blankets as Crowley could commandeer, complaining feebly that he was warm enough, thank you, and no he did not need any cocoa, and he was resting very comfortably, and it was perfectly obvious that Crowley would not be able to sit still until he had checked on the Bentley so why didn’t he go and do that?

And after half an hour of Crowley’s persistent denials that he wanted to be anywhere other than fretting about the guest room trying to do things for Aziraphale, the latter suddenly declared that oh _dear_, he had left his first edition copy of _Persuasion_ in the boot of the Bentley, and wouldn’t Crowley be a dear and rescue it for him, how kind he was, no need to hurry back though, he had plenty to read here and he promised to keep warm. 

Crowley stifled a snort, outwitted, but then bent over him, and softly kissed Aziraphale’s brow, his cheeks, his lips. “Anything for you, angel,” he breathed, and meandered off to find Newt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It wasn’t what Aziraphale had wanted, but Crowley said outright that he didn’t trust his own judgement when it came to making a home. He had given a few parameters (“a _big_ bed, angel, kingsize at least, bigger would be better”; “some modern touches, don’t mind what, just please remember it isn’t 1890 any more”; “at least one wall on each floor that isn’t completely full of fucking books”), and left the rest to Aziraphale. He had not even seen pictures of the house. After all, he said, it wasn’t every day that a millennia-old demon got to be surprised.
> 
> [2] And, Aziraphale had noted with what Crowley considered an unnecessarily smug tone, to be driven in a regular, human manner. And preferably below the speed limit, with the correct use of indicators, and obeying at least some parking regulations.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Find me on tumblr at @mywingsareonwheels!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a ghastly pause. The roof of the garage settled slightly in a rising wind. In the far, far distance, the sounds of cars and children and dogs (and Dog) might perhaps have been audible. Autumn was coming; there was a faint smell of apples and leaf-litter. Motes of dust sparkled in the air above Newt’s head.
> 
> Newt’s face was blanched, but he met what was visible of Crowley’s gaze defiantly.
> 
> _So this is what Anathema sees in him,_ thought Crowley. _He’s kind and sweet and rather nervous, but as soon as he thinks something is the right thing to do he’s absolutely prepared to be a right bastard over it. Reminds me of someone else I know._
> 
> * * *
> 
> I've just done some edits on this and previous chapters; I'm not as happy with this story as I am with the others in the series, and I want to get it working again! At any rate, I hope some people are still enjoying it. :) There's some smut to come soon...

The Bentley seemed fine. Newt tactfully withdrew for a few minutes and Crowley ran his hands over flanks and paintwork, kicked tyres apologetically, and felt a happy purring energy rising up from the dormant engine. “Missed you,” he said. Then, flushing a little, he laid his head affectionately on the top of the bonnet.

“Good job,” he said briskly to Newt when the latter sidled back into the garage with a clipboard and pen. Crowley had a healthy distrust for clipboards[1], but signed the relevant paperwork with no more than a desultory wince, and then signed a rather large cheque in the same spirit.

“Crowley,” said Newt. “Um… I have to ask. Do you actually know how to drive?”

There was a ghastly pause. The roof of the garage settled slightly in a rising wind. In the far, far distance, the sounds of cars and children and dogs (and Dog) might perhaps have been audible. Autumn was coming; there was a faint smell of apples and leaf-litter. Motes of dust sparkled in the air above Newt’s head.

Newt’s face was blanched, but he met what was visible of Crowley’s gaze defiantly.

_So this is what Anathema sees in him,_ thought Crowley. _He’s kind and sweet and rather nervous, but as soon as he thinks something is the right thing to do he’s absolutely prepared to be a right bastard over it. Reminds me of someone else I know._

“No,” he said, breaking the silence so suddenly that Newt stifled a squeak. “No, I don’t. I mean… I know how to do it. I know the theory, I know the rules[2], I can probably summon up the muscle memory. But I’ve never driven without at least some miraculous assistance.” He took off his sunglasses, and managed a smile. “Any chance of some help?”

* * *

It is a truth acknowledged by anyone who has spent time in the most remote parts of North Wales or the Highlands of Scotland that the English do not know how to make single-track roads properly. There are high hedges restricting visibility. There is minimal signage even on the approach to sharp bends, rises, and junctions. There is a shocking dearth of passing places.

The countryside to the west of Tadfield, whatever its other charms, was no exception. Crowley had not driven in Wales or the Highlands of Scotland, so had no experience of what roads like this were supposed to be like, but he knew enough about what made travel frustrating and nerve-wracking to see that here was a perfect example of both the form and function of tempting drivers into sin.

On the upside, it made for good practice. Newt, in the passenger seat, was an anxious but competent instructor, and as Crowley guided the Bentley around the maze of green, wooded lanes, gradually using fewer and fewer miracles (and driving more and more legally), he found there was something to be said for the rhythm of driving slowly, peacefully, and without any unnecessary annoyance to other road users (whether pedestrian, cyclist, driver, or, in one instance, squirrel). There was even something quietly gleeful in realising, an hour into the lesson, that he was behaving better than most of the other drivers; in keeping at least one mile an hour below the speed limit; in reversing perfectly into whatever passing places he could find; in waving pleasantly at arseholes who beeped at him for not allowing them to overtake quickly enough.

_Earth,_ he thought to himself. _Is this what Aziraphale feels like all the time? No wonder he's so blessed smug._

By the time they arrived back at the garage, it was nearly seven. They had been driving for over two hours, covering a large swathe of the rural lanes of Oxfordshire and surrounding counties. Crowley belatedly remembered to check the Bentley’s boot before heading back to the cottage, and sure enough there, cunningly swathed in silk, was Aziraphale’s prized first edition of _Persuasion_, the one he was absolutely certain he himself had packed to be taken down to Applecoombe. _Oh Aziraphale,_ he thought, with fond exasperation, _and you were so insistent that we should stop performing frivolous miracles as soon as we left London._

* * *

“Angel, got your book!” he called out as he ran up the stairs towards the guest room. “Newt’s about to start making dinner. Sorry it’s going to be a bit late. My fault, I lost track of time. You would not believe how rude some of the drivers are around here, utter road-hogs, they...”

He broke off. Aziraphale was curled up on his side in the bed, clutching the duvet around him. One arm was flung over his face, but the sobs were convulsing him, choking him. Crowley put the book down carefully on the dressing table.

“Oh, angel,” said Crowley. “Hey, hey. Ssh. I’m here.” 

"... Crowley?"

Crowley lay down beside him, drawing him gently against his chest, kissing his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“No...” Aziraphale choked out. “I… I wanted you to go, I just… I didn’t expect you’d be gone for so long, and...”

“Aziraphale. I’m so sorry, I should have...”

“No,” Aziraphale said again. “You weren’t to know. I thought I would be fine. I just… I fell asleep, and...” he sobbed.

“Another nightmare?” It hardly needed asking.

“Three, I think. At least. I would wake, and fall asleep again, and… Crowley, I think I’ve died in my dreams at least eight times since you went out. Once I was you. In another, I was one of those poor children in the Flood. In the last one Uriel stabbed me with my own sword and I went to hell and… and you were there. And you didn’t remember me. And Gabriel was telling you to torture me, and _laughing_, and there were steam vents and you… Oh God.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by his shoulder and pulled him on to his back. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down fiercely into the widening blue eyes. “Never, angel,” he said, hoarsely. “Never. There is no power in the world that could make me forget you. I’d forget myself first. I’d forget _everything_.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “I… I know that. If I know anything. I also doubt somehow that you’d get much pleasure from torturing anybody.”

Crowley hissed. “Dont get carried away, angel, you've never put me in a room with Gabriel and a...”

“I’m just...” said Aziraphale, ignoring him. “Perhaps there is a part of me that doesn’t know anything any more.” He reached up and softly traced his fingertips along Crowley’s cheek. “But you are the closest to certain that I come.”

"Crowley, my corporation seems to be craving sleep suddenly. Lots of it. In the bath earlier, and this afternoon. I’m frightened. I’m very frightened. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t want any more dreams like that.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around him, growling into his neck. "Say the word and I'll burst into your dreams and beat the nightmares to pieces."

“I know. My brave, kind, heroic Crowley. You would shake your mighty wings and scatter them in... in the imagination of their hearts.”

“Fuck mighty wings. Don't mock me, angel, and don't quote the KJV at me. I’d ride the Bentley into the bastards. I’d glass them in alleyways. Slither round them and crush them in my coils and drag them away from you.”

Aziraphale leaned into his touch. “I'm not mocking, dearest. But think this time I am going to have to rescue myself.”

“But maybe...” Crowley hesitated, then went on, “maybe tonight I can help you chase them away?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He had invented them, after all.
> 
> [2] It’s no fun breaking rules if you don’t know what they are.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Do say hello on tumblr at @mywingsareonwheels :-)


End file.
